Speaking in tongues: ‘Lorem ipsum dolor sit atmet consectgure adip — scigine porelae loere?’

By Postie Editors

Dearest Reader,

We owe you an explanation, preferably in English. We had a bit of a snafu last week. If you’ve seen our Jan. 25 issue, you will have noticed some ‘creative writing’ on the front page. It was littered with placeholder text.

Many of you have kindly pointed out our error. Thank you sincerely for pointing out our successes as well…

We ask you this defensive, pseudo-sensitive question: Aren’t we all just placeholders for something else, anyway?

If you remained undistracted by our mind trickery, we’ll address the real questions at hand: How does such gibberish find its way into the final product? Why would we let such garbage taint our beloved paper and your precious eyes?

We could tell you “Lorem ipsum” is a code name for  The Post’s complex plot to test our readers. We wanted to be sure you looked at more than the pictures and the “buy one, get one free” ad for Noodles and Company. (You’ve passed, by the way. Congrats. You’re holding the prize.)

Maybe we were trying to instill culture through the use of a dead language.

The rough translation, if you haven’t already Googled it to mock us, is: “There is no one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain.” Clearly, The Post likes pain and humiliation.

It’s possible that the elves that report, write, photograph and produce the content were making a statement against the establishment. There’s been dissent among the ranks resulting from  The Post’s inability to also produce Keebler cookies in the newsroom because of a contractual agreement with Chartwells.

Perhaps the staff (and our aforementioned elves) was abducted and were pleading for forgiveness from the basement of a creeper who smells strongly of “sour” milk and is too comfortable having a stockpile of cheese puffs, seven cats and zero friends.

Maybe we’re a rogue band of androids computing and filing news and there was a technical glitch last Tuesday night.

Maybe it was a voodoo curse.

Perhaps we were presenting you with the opportunity to say ‘You screwed the pooch’ because your satisfaction comes first and we know how you love that phrase.

Maybe it’s subliminal messaging (We’re not telling you for what though).

Or maybe, it was 2 a.m. and we, being merely human, made a mistake.

We’re people. Hell, we’re your classmates. Have a heart, or deport us a la Piers Morgan. Whichever you prefer.

Whatever you choose to believe, know that The Post loves you and needs you. Unless you continue to mock us or refuse to forgive us, at which point, dum inter homines sumus, colamus humanitatem.